Body Parts
by grannysknitting
Summary: An exploration of what John and Sherlock think of various parts of the body - not obvious ones. Rated for safety and slight risque touching of feet


**Body Parts**

AN – a whimsical series of one shots (slash and non) involving John, Sherlock and various parts of their bodies (get your mind out of the gutter, yes I'm looking at YOU).

Not split into chapters (sorry)

Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

**Nose**

His nose led him in.

Normally when on a case, his stomach was quiescent. No matter what the stimulus was, when he was concentrating on a puzzle his body was numb to everything, only the work mattered.

The scents currently distracting him were unusually enchanting. It was so common to walk past a hole in the wall café like this one and smell nothing but an unbalanced and overpowering smell of food cooking – often overly heavily spiced, always guaranteed to destroy what little appetite or inclination to eat he might have been experiencing. Just a whiff of certain foods was enough to put him off for days at a time – something that his flatmate had learned very quickly, if the content of their shopping bags was anything to go by.

This was different.

He could actually smell individual dishes, in an enticing mix of heat and spice that lingered in his nostrils and excited his palate. Before his brain had a chance to shut his noses input down, his hand had reached for the door and his feet had followed, turning him from the footpath into the shopfront. The bottom third of the door handle was appropriately tarnished and he found himself in a seat at a surprisingly clean table – simple wood, polished to a dull sheen – in a space that was not overly or under decorated, with a quiet burble of background noise – mostly from the other patrons.

He ordered automatically – the menu was simple and hand written – and he didn't have long to wait until the meal arrived.

The food itself was so good that he couldn't bring himself to regret the brain power that would be diverted to digestion. The combination of flavour and texture was so sublime that he decided after only three bites that John would have to be brought here as well. His flatmate was always eager to try new places.

As he was paying, a thought occurred and he bolted from the café without waiting for his change.

It seemed that spicy food didn't have as detrimental an effect on his brain power as he'd thought it might. He'd have to come here again.

With John, of course.

**%&%&%**

**Hand**

His hand hurt.

It was his right hand, fortunately. Blood spilled from his knuckles and ran over his palm and fingers, making them slick.

John cradled his right hand in his left, thinking about the injury, diagnosing split knuckles and possibly a broken finger if the jagged edged pain and swelling was any indicator – and to his expert eye they were.

In front of him there was a commotion.

Men and women were busily shouting at each other, waving arms and phones and pointing fingers and blame. At the centre of it lay a supine body, his jaw swelling. He was clearly unconscious but no one seemed inclined to go to his aid.

John sighed.

He was looking at weeks of being one handed, though it wasn't his dominant hand that was hurt, which would be inconvenient to say the least. He didn't like it when he had to rely on one had to do the job of two and it was so much easier to cope with his flatmates shenanigans when he was two handed.

The unconscious man would also be in need of some form of treatment. He should at least be checked to see if he had a viable airway. The commotion hadn't died down, but John didn't bother interfering, ducking through the whirling arms and accusations with ease and crouching down to ascertain if the patient was breathing properly or not.

He was, so John stood again, moving back out of the way. Normally he'd have stayed with the patient, but this wasn't a very nice man and as it was John's fault he was currently unconscious on the floor with a swollen jaw it seemed to the former soldier that things were better left without his help.

The man he'd punched had said horrible, undeserved things to someone that John cared about, attacking this person for things that were really out of his control. Professional abuse was something that was easily ignored, but when the abuse became personal John had intervened. Calm words and a world weary attitude were a good diversion when it came to defusing volatile personalities, because there was nothing for them to hook into and play off against. It hadn't worked so well here.

Even then, John would have kept his temper. Punching someone in the jaw, no matter how satisfying, wasn't really his style. What tipped him towards violence was the pained, saddened look in dark eyes. He could almost see the mind behind those eyes saying _'__please__don__'__t__believe__him,__it__'__s__not__true,__I__'__m__not__a__monster__…'_

John had lost his temper and thrown the punch so violently that the single blow was enough to knock the abusive loudmouth out, toppling him to the ground like a tree that had been felled. The blow had personal consequences of course, past the immediate pain and long term inconvenience. They had to work with some of the people currently yelling in front of him, which would be harder to do now – at least for a while until this all blew over.

Movement on the edge of his vision caught his attention and John looked over at the man he'd defended. The message in those eyes had changed, becoming a single message, three little words that were so powerful when combined they were difficult to say.

The pain and inconvenience were worth it.

**%&%&%&**

**Fingers**

His fingers buzzed and jerked, spasming across the hard strings below them. It was hard to tell if the noise was as a result of those spasms or the spasms a result of the noise. The ear splitting cacophony wailed its way through the air, corrupting the peace of the night and filling the room with angry pulses.

It crawled across his skin with a thousand sharp feet, making his fingers spasm harder, making the noise worse, making the discomfort grow and all the while his mind whirled and jumped in useless loops, getting him nowhere.

And then it stopped. Other fingers caught hold of his and the wailing screeching thing was taken away. His nerves jittered and twanged and then warm fingers wrapped around his.

Strong, gentle touches smoothed and stroked over his hands, pressing warmth and care into them with delicate ease. He twitched, the difference between his fingers and his body an uncomfortable dichotomy, but the fingers rubbing his didn't cease and after long, twanging moments the ease began to creep up his arms and spread throughout his whole body. Slowly he ceased fidgetting on the spot, letting the warmth seep into his nerves and quiet them.

His mind was the last thing to still, but the fingers working his never once faltered or ceased, pressing calm from outside of himself into his nervous system, into his very mind.

For a long moment he was suspended in peace. All that existed was the warmth and comfort being pressed into his hands. He soaked it up like a sponge, basking in it eagerly, absorbing as much as he could for as long as he could stand it.

Even now, his mind began to spin once more, thoughts and possibilities creeping back into the forefront of his brain and seeking his attention. It was more orderly this time, more controlled and his fingers twitched inside their comforter's seeking to be employed once more.

Warm wood and cool tensile strength were pressed into his fingers, but this time the instrument produced sounds that were mellow, soothing and calm. The notes flowed easily from his fingers, not at all discordant, restful to his battered nerves and mind, reflecting the thoughts that now had order and purpose to them.

In the distant corner of his mind that kept track of such things, he noted that the bringer of peace stayed nearby, like a guardian against the return of discordance.

It was a comforting thought.

**&%&%&**

**Legs**

He didn't think about how far he had run, he just ran, keeping the tails of Sherlock's coat in sight as they followed the thief over rooftops and through alleys and tunnels. Sherlock's phone had disappeared early on – it was probably in the wrong pocket again, because the man was a genius when it came to deducing but useless when it came to keeping track of his possessions – so it was down to John to call in the updates to Lestrade and his team.

That was not as easy as it sounded, because half the time their physical location had to be reported by the nearest landmark or address. It was all very well to say you were at the National Aquarium, but when you were in fact running over the _roof_ of said aquarium the information wasn't that helpful. Lestrade kept threatening to get a police chopper out to follow them and Sherlock was _adamant_ that they don't.

John suspected that the thief, who had already thrown well balanced knives and had fired a handgun and something that was semi-automatic at them also had something that would do damage to a chopper, not to mention the surrounding buildings. Sherlock had mentioned that the man in question was well connected when it came to weaponry and their thief had certainly proved that he had no qualms using it against those that pursued him.

That didn't matter. Nothing mattered except for the rhythm of his legs, moving as surely and steadily as any finely tuned machine would, keeping up with Sherlock's coattails and the thief's dogged flight.

Sherlock flings a hand out and John peels away, breaking left and running harder, taking three long strides and leaping across an alley, landing on a sloped surface that mercifully isn't slick, powering up it and then using the down slope on the other side to gather speed and get ahead, barking breathless orders to the men following them as he does.

He slithers/falls down to ground level and doesn't even break stride, though a small part of him knows he'll pay for his recklessness tomorrow in stiff muscles and bone deep aches. Above and behind him a shadow flits over the edge of a building and down the fire escape, followed by the outline of Sherlock. His partner is keeping a careful distance, driving their prey now, though the man doesn't know it yet. John counts the rhythm of the footsteps running diagonally to his and paces himself appropriately, approaching the corner at a steady speed as he hears Sherlock speed up, chivvying the man along. John reaches the corner mere seconds before their prey and swings his arm out, coming to a sudden stop and grunting as the thief runs into it full tilt, knocking himself out cold and collapsing like a sack of potatoes to the ground without so much as a groan.

Sherlock slithers to a stop behind them, grinning in the dim light of the alley and John heaves for breath, throwing the phone to his partner and leaning against the wall, feeling his legs tremble in reaction. By his reckoning they've run at least five miles, all of it at a full sprint, something he hasn't had to do since basic training all those years ago.

Perhaps, John thinks as Sherlock gives the last directions to Lestrade, he can get his partner to give him a massage later, or share a hot bath.

Both options sound good.

**%&%&%&**

**Eyes**

AN – Don't panic!

He could not believe his eyes. This was Wrong. It was impossible. He wouldn't let it happen, it _wouldn__'__t_ happen, because it was impossibly wrong.

His universe was collapsing around him in an agonisingly slow decline. He could see it all as if it was playing out on a screen. First there would be the treatments, the tiredness and sickness and then there would be the decline and the end of working on cases, on patients, on anything other than breathing and eventually that would end too and he would be gone and Sherlock would be alone, all alone…

Vaguely he was aware that someone was shouting, screaming in anger and denial and then there was a burning sensation as bile forced its way up his throat, burning his sinuses and making his eyes water even as he retched and heaved in denial.

Still, the vision danced in front of his eyes, mocking him.

A voice was shouting, hands trying to get him to respond but he lashed out, making them go away until there was peace, a cold surface under his bum and hard surfaces at each shoulder and he curled up into an impossibly small ball, screwing his eyes shut. Someone was whimpering now, little words of grief and denial and _still_ the vision from his microscope haunted him, dancing in his mind and taunting him.

John was going to die.

"Sherlock?"

Strong arms – for how much longer would they be this strong – and the comforting scent of John – for how much longer would he smell warm and _alive_ – engulfed him and he collapsed, allowing the comfort, allowing the other man to hold him close.

"Shhh, its ok, Sherlock, I've got you," John's voice was calm and easy, not at all worried. Sherlock hiccupped and choked and wondered how he was going to tell him, how he _could_ tell him that he was dying, even if he didn't feel it yet.

"What happened?" the question was aimed outside of the sphere of Sherlock-and-John.

"He was doing a blood test and the results made him …" Lestrade's voice rumbled while Molly twittered in the background.

"Molly, did you see what reagent he used? Perhaps he's had an adverse reaction," John's voice was worried now and Sherlock burrowed closer, not wanting him to hear the answer, to work it out. The only place that John could match Sherlock in the realm of deduction was when Sherlock himself was the topic. Sherlock was _transparent_ to John, read as easily as a children's story book at times. It wouldn't take long for John to discover what Sherlock had been doing when really it was Sherlock's place to break the news.

John should not have to deduce that Sherlock had discovered that he was dying.

He didn't have the words for it. He _couldn__'__t_…

Molly's voice sounded again, the words indistinct. Lestrade's sounded a moment later, reading the label on the reagent. Sherlock could imagine him standing there with a glove on, holding the container away from him in case it was contaminated as clearly as if he was looking at him.

"Hmm," John murmured. Sherlock could feel the man thinking. How much longer would he have this, how long until he was alone? John's hands were gently stroking his head and holding him close, letting Sherlock track the heartbeat that was suddenly so precious, that he had taken for granted, by pressing his cheek to it.

"Oh," John sounded startled, "Oh Sherlock, were you testing my blood with that?"

Sherlock nodded, cringing closer and felt John actually haul him close, the arms around him holding him that bit tighter as the realisation sunk in.

"Your blood?" Lestrade sounded astonished and John actually _laughed_, a short breath of sound so out of place that Sherlock felt sick again.

"He uses our blood as control in his tests. His if he's looking for a particular reaction or mine. He says it's better than using a stranger's blood because he can predict the reactions: it saves a bit of time. He was testing the blood of that Mabry murder victim this morning. We thought there was an unusual drug involved, remember?"

"So why did he throw up all over his microscope and nearly trash the lab?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock moaned in denial, the slide's results flashing in front of his eyes again.

"That reagent has been used in days gone by to test for particular types of blood cancers. I'm betting that he got a positive result," John didn't sound worried at all and Sherlock cursed his friend's strength at this moment. John should be as scared as Sherlock was…

"John," Lestrade at least appreciated the true horror of the situation if his tone was anything to go by.

"It's a false positive, Greg," John sounded so certain that Sherlock held his breath, "They stopped using it when they realised that the reagent also reacted to patients who had once received a particular type of intensive chelation-therapy back in the early seventies. I was two when I caught meningitis, but it was diagnosed early and I came out the other side unscathed."

The words were addressed to Greg, but Sherlock soaked them up like a sponge, scarcely believing.

"I should have warned him," there was remorse in John's voice now and on his face when Sherlock looked up, "I'm sorry Sherlock."

"Positively false?" Sherlock asked and John nodded, tucking him closer.

"It's all fine," the words, said on their first 'date' at Angelo's were more reassuring than twenty minutes of explanation.

Still, Sherlock wasn't sure he'd be able to trust his eyes again. Not after they'd convinced him John was dying.

On the other hand, without his eyes he couldn't see John now; see the healthy colour to his skin and the warmth in his eyes, all for Sherlock.

AN2 – Phew! Hope I didn't scare you all too much! Told ya not to panic!

**%&%&%&**

**Feet**

AN – smut/slash alert

Of all the appendages on the Human body, who knew that feet were the way to quiet Sherlock Holmes? John had long been aware of Sherlock's feet – they were large, pale and the toes were practically prehensile – having become accustomed to being nudged, kicked and tapped by them in all sorts of circumstances.

Sherlock's feet were oddly expressive. If he was annoyed, they tapped. If he was happy they wriggled. When he was content he kneaded his toes like a cat in a sunny spot. On the occasions that John shared the couch with his flatmate, Sherlock's feet ended up tucked under his leg 'for warmth' or plonked unceremoniously into his lap. As his flatmate was meticulous about personal hygiene, John wasn't too fussed over their presence.

He didn't discover his flatmate's reaction to having his feet touched until late one night after a particularly long case. They were both tired, but John was too wired to sleep so they were collapsed on the couch, John watching late night infomercials on kitchen appliances and Sherlock flat on his back with his toes kneading John's thigh. The motion was irregular and irritating as Sherlock kept falling into a doze and then waking, so John eventually dragged both feet so the heels were resting on his thigh with the toes waving in the air in disgruntlement.

John had rubbed the feet that he held absentmindedly, digging his thumbs into Sherlock's arches and rubbing the long toes with his fingers. He hadn't quite registered the groans from the puddle of consulting detective until a break in the infomercial – and really, did they _need_ to have advertisements in a show that was one long advertisement – and Sherlock's noises fell in the brief moment of quiet before the next ad started.

A glance showed that the massage was having another affect on his partner, but John was too tired to actively do anything about _that_. If Sherlock's squirms and moans were anything to go by, he wouldn't have to either, that little problem – or not so little, after all the man had big feet – would take care of itself.

The man on the TV started in on something called a magic bullet, which appeared to be a blender and John let his hands move on auto-pilot, part of him cataloguing which touches produced the most heartfelt sounds, while another part of him wondered why people needed a blender named after a weapon and a third part of him calculated how much energy he'd need to get up off the couch and go to bed. Sherlock made a particularly emphatic sound and the feet under John's hands went completely slack, so getting up and going to bed would not cause a Bad Mood in his partner.

Sherlock was out for the count and so John turned the telly off and dragged himself off the couch, wandering into the bathroom to wash his hands before going to sleep.

As he dropped onto their bed, already missing the limpet that Sherlock turned into at night; John mused on the benefits of massage and wondered blearily if there were other parts of Sherlock that reacted like that.

It would be an interesting experiment.

**%&%&%**

**Eyebrow**

His eyebrow hurt. It was a little known fact, but his eyebrow hid a chicken pox scar from when he'd been three and when ever that little scar hurt it was going to rain.

Not the sort of rain that settled in for the day and made everything feel slippery and nasty. Not drizzle or mist that left behind a thin layer of water on everything that you only noticed when you brushed inconveniently against it and certainly not the sort of shower that accompanied the more grand thunder and lightning storm.

No, this particular weather ache – and he had several of them now – signified the sort of rain that boiled up out of no where, drenched everything in twenty feet of water and then disappeared leaving you wondering what the hell had just happened and if your flood insurance was adequate to cover it.

Normally this wasn't a problem – John had learned to get under cover when his eyebrow started pinging and thus avoid the worst of it – but today John wasn't in the middle of a city, or even a small village. Today he was standing in a field near the motorway, 'guarding' a crime scene while his partner and particular cross to bear fetched the authorities. Normally Sherlock wouldn't bother until he'd documented the scene for himself, but this particular case was a bit sensitive and Sherlock had reluctantly conceded to keep the Yard – which meant Lestrade, really – in the loop.

Ok, so if he was honest he wasn't so much guarding the crime scene as acting as a traffic cone or x-marks-the-spot for Sherlock to come back to, but John was not about to quibble over his lot in life after all this time. He'd long since accepted his role as secretary come handbag come weapon come medical reference… actually the list of things that John did for Sherlock never really ended.

The wind picked up and his eyebrow twanged and John sighed, glancing around the field. His eyes lit up when he spotted the machinery shed and he dropped his jacket onto the ground to mark his place, and then jogged over towards it quickly. He'd learned housebreaking from Sherlock and was pleased to find several strong tarps and a variety of heavy objects he could use to anchor them as well as a barrow.

In no time at all he had the tarps spread and anchored and was back in the shed. They sky above him, which had actually been blue for a change had darkened dramatically as he worked, the clouds boiling up from the horizon with shocking rapidity. He reached the haven of the shed not a moment too soon as the skies opened and the rain hit so hard it bounced.

The noise on the roof was deafening and John found a dusty if serviceable piece of junk to sit on and wait it out. At least his eyebrow had stopped hurting – the sharp pangs were uncomfortable to say the least and somewhat distracting. Fifteen minutes of fury later, the storm had washed itself out and five minutes after that the sky was clear again.

John didn't bother to stir – there was no point going out to stand in the wet field and soak his shoes through – choosing instead to pull his phone out and check for messages. There was no signal, but that didn't stop him from pulling up a game and playing it while he waited.

Sherlock's face was rather like a thundercloud as the police vehicles pulled up. Lestrade looked rather like his ears were ringing as well while Anderson's sour expression was particularly pronounced. The cars were wet, so they'd driven through the rain to get here, but it was obvious that they were all suffering Sherlock's displeasure at their slow reaction time, their general ignorance and incompetence and the ruin of his crime scene.

"Oh well done, John. I see you managed to get out of the rain," the sarcasm loading that statement could have cut through steel.

"Thanks Sherlock. I'm pleased to be dry too," John replied mildly and secretly enjoyed the double takes from the Yarders. No one ever suspected him of being even more sarcastic than Sherlock was at times, but John was more than a match for his partner when it came to such things – he just rarely let that side show.

Sherlock gave him a wide eyed and wounded look which John ignored as a matter of course and swept off to survey the ruin of his crime scene. John followed along behind peacefully, hoping that the tarps had done their job the way he'd expected them to. There had been a slight slope, so he'd added more weight to that side in an effort to keep the water from seeping under, but there was no way to get the wet tarps off without dropping them over the ground, which would disturb the evidence. The forensics team would have enough man power to get the tarps off safely, hence John's contentment to wait for back up.

"Oh John!" Sherlock breathed when he reached the edge of the tarps, "Oh you brilliant man!"

If his partner hadn't sounded so surprised that John had the sense to realise it was going to rain and move to protect the evidence, John would have been quite pleased with that sentence. As it was… not so much.

"Thanks, Sherlock," John rolled his eyes, "I do my best."

"But it came on so quickly and this is carefully laid out – quite meticulous. How did you know to cover the scene in time?" Sherlock whirled to look at him. John grinned and shrugged.

"I have a secret weapon," he replied and Sherlock scowled once more, glaring when he realised that was all the answer he was going to get. The forensics team were already moving to uncover the scene and Sherlock was clearly torn between supervising them and working John out.

"You're the genius," John challenged him, safe in the knowledge that Sherlock leant no credence to the field of 'weather aches', "You figure it out."

**%&%&%**

**Shoulder**

Sometimes, when the weather was particularly cold or about to change suddenly or some outside force acted upon his flatmate, John's shoulder hurt him. He never drew attention to it – in fact he preferred Sherlock to pretend that he hadn't even noticed – but every now and then Sherlock couldn't _help_ but notice. For example, there was the time when a suspect's aim was off and the punch meant for John's head hit his shoulder instead and the doctor had dropped like a sack of potatoes, hitting the floor hard.

The suspect had been so startled he'd hesitated for approximately three seconds, which was long enough for John to draw his leg back and land a blow to the groin that rendered the other mans advantage moot. Sherlock had reached them by that point and took no little satisfaction in knocking the other man unconscious and tying him up.

What he'd _wanted_ to do was to reach out and take care of John, but that wasn't allowed.

Sherlock had discovered – much to his own shock – early in their association, that he didn't like it when John was in pain. This newfound discovery was accompanied by the equally uncharacteristic desire to alleviate said pain – hence the little trick with the cane, proving to John that he didn't need it had alleviated the John's pain and had made Sherlock feel better as well. He hadn't understood it, had no one to ask about it and rejected Google's answers on the subject outright.

Now, years later, he understood why he wanted to alleviate John's pain and was pleased to do so at the slightest opportunity. Indeed, if John had a headache, or had injured any part of himself _other_ than his shoulder during a case, Sherlock had free reign to do as he liked in an effort to cure said pain.

The Shoulder was out of bounds though. Sherlock had seen the scar for himself many times by this point – he'd seen John naked long before they became partners in every sense of the word – but John refused to let Sherlock near it. Even when they were mid coitus, the Shoulder was not to be touched.

Sherlock suspected that it hurt John everyday and that his partner's sheer bloody-minded nature was what kept him from simply giving in to the pain. John would not take anything stronger than the occasional panadol, insisted on using both arms normally and even insisted on bearing his 'fair share' of any carrying or lifting needed during a case. Sherlock knew for himself how easy it would be to take a stronger pain killer for the pain and how easy it would be to become addicted.

When it came to pain in the Shoulder, Sherlock did have his own little ways of helping John manage it. For example, there was any number of distractions he could employ – everything from irritations to more intimate pleasures. Endorphins and adrenaline were also known pain relievers, though if the pain was too bad, no amount of Sherlock's wiles would garner a reaction from John – and running jarred the Shoulder which made it a poor substitute.

Sometimes, though, Sherlock couldn't even touch his partner. John became snappish and pale and Sherlock would back off, knowing that once the pain was gone John would be remorseful and upset that he'd taken his pain out on Sherlock. Sherlock didn't like to put John through that and so he would retreat as soon as he realised that the pain was too bad for him to ease through touch or other distractions.

He would instead play for John on the violin, quiet airs that would soothe instead of irritate. He would make sure that the sitting room was dim but not dark – John didn't like it being too dark or too bright when his was in pain – and that the room was at a properly warm temperature. Cold, too bright and too loud were all annoyances when the Shoulder was aching and Sherlock was a past master at setting up the proper atmosphere. A skill he had developed for his cases was now put to a nobler use, that of comforting John.

Sometimes even that skill would fail him and John would retreat upstairs to their room, seeking solitude to be miserable in peace. Sherlock had yet to work out what to do on those occasions: the one person he would usually turn to for advice was the one in pain and telling Mrs Hudson that John was hurting was counter-productive. She would fuss, which John hated and Sherlock would be forced to watch his partner struggling with his temper while trying to politely dismiss their landlady.

John of course managed his own pain as best he could – heat packs and cold packs and unguents that smelt of wintergreen were well stocked in their flat, not to mention one or two slings that John used to immobilise his arm on two separate occasions when the pain was too much to bear. Both of those occurrences had prompted Sherlock to actually text Mycroft for help, which had resulted in a foreign – by which he really meant not John – doctor appearing with a medical bag and pain killers which knocked John out for an entire day.

John also did daily stretches – prescribed by a physiotherapist – to maintain the strength and mobility of the joint. Sherlock had offered massages, but had been firmly rebuffed. He knew that John trusted him not to hurt the Shoulder, just as he knew that John welcomed his touch in other areas, in fact a back rub frequently led to other things in their household.

Sherlock had the feeling that he'd never work out why John refused all help with the pain from his Shoulder. It was just an aspect of the never-dull, always fascinating personality housed inside the completely ordinary looking persona that John presented to the world.

That didn't mean he'd ever stop trying. After all, he hated seeing John in pain.

**%&%&%&**

**Arms**

Sherlock had never realised that he could be attracted to a part of his flatmate simply because of its strength. John was compact and muscular and did his best to keep fit – certainly running around London after Sherlock helped with that – and he was very pleasant to look at. Certain parts of him were downright alluring, but Sherlock's attraction to John's arms had nothing to do with their intimate life.

John had certainly proved his strength in other arenas – both physical and moral – but his arms held a special attraction for Sherlock. The consulting detective had discovered that being held in John's arms – no matter where they were – resulted in a feeling of warmth and comfort that was equalled only by his memories of being held as a small boy by Mummy.

Not long after The Pool, they had become intimate with each other. Sherlock had thought initially that the relationship wouldn't last – he was perceived by many as difficult and demanding and was sure that John would tire of him – so he had protected his heart to some degree, holding a small part of himself in reserve. That all changed after only three months.

Three months after The Pool came Mrs Hudson's sixty fifth birthday. John had decided that they – as in Sherlock and himself – would take Mrs Hudson out to tea and celebrate with her and Sherlock had given in because if he hadn't John might have gotten into a mood. When John was in a mood, coitus was off the menu and after only three months Sherlock was addicted to coitus with John. He'd even gone in with John to buy a small gift – a necklace with a small sapphire pendant.

They were coming down the stairs to pick Mrs Hudson up from her ground floor flat when there was a knock on the door. Mrs Hudson had bustled out to answer it, wearing that purple dress that she so liked and her good black shoes. As she had started to open the door it was shoved open from the outside and a trio of people burst in, one of them shouting questions at Mrs Hudson quite rudely.

It was a moment's work to deduce that they were a camera crew, from Florida, making a documentary about Mr Hudson and his crimes. Mrs Hudson had retreated back towards her flat, stammering and flustered and Sherlock was about to intervene when John's hands gripped the banister, the muscles in his arms flexed – Sherlock loved that jumper it was just a wee bit tight – and he vaulted off the stairs, dropping into the passage between Mrs Hudson and the so-called interviewer with a slight thump, his face grim and an ID thrust out.

"Scotland Yard," John said flatly, flipping the ID so quickly that Sherlock doubted the three intruders could properly read it, "You're trespassing. Get out before I arrest you."

Sherlock was proud for two reasons. First, John was protecting Mrs Hudson, who was Important and Nice to Sherlock. Second, John was using the ID that Sherlock had nicked from Anderson only yesterday when the forensics expert had irritated him. John had confiscated it, citing that he didn't want to even contemplate the sort of damage Sherlock would do to Anderson's reputation with it.

John advanced down the hall towards the startled intruders, his arms flexed out from his side and a forbidding look on his face. Sherlock was pleased to note that even when he was at his most trying, John had never aimed that look at _him_. When they cleared the stairs Sherlock stepped in front of John, his own best forbidding look on his face and the intruders actually bolted for the door which Sherlock took great pleasure in locking securely.

When he turned around Mrs Hudson's front door was open and John was no where in sight. He could hear weeping coming from Mrs Hudson's flat and hesitated for a moment before going reluctantly in. He could at least reassure Mrs Hudson that they were locked out of the house and paused long enough to send a text to Lestrade and Mycroft about what had happened.

Mrs Hudson was sitting on her couch weeping into John's good shoulder. John had both arms around her and his cheek pressed to her temple. Sherlock stood still for a moment, looking at the two of them and envying the comfort being lavished on his not-a-housekeeper.

The evening was ruined of course, they wouldn't be going out now and part of Sherlock was disappointed. He had looked forward to going out with his John and Mrs Hudson and if the whole idea of a birthday was illogical, it was still Good to spend time with the two Important people in his life. Now he had to listen to Mrs Hudson's tears and he didn't even have John's arms to fall back into because they were full of weeping landlady.

"They're gone, Mrs Hudson and I've sent for someone to sort things out," Sherlock said awkwardly. She detached a hand from John's jumper and held it out and Sherlock found it easy to step forward and take it, sinking to his knees so her hand wasn't at an awkward height. She was quite small, his landlady, especially as she sunk into John's arms.

Sherlock sunk down onto his heels and laid his head on Mrs Hudson's knee, her hand still in his. One of John's arms moved to wrap around Sherlock's shoulders, joining him in a circle of family and strength. The warm weight went some way to dispelling the cold ache in Sherlock's chest.

"My boys," Mrs Hudson sniffed, "What would I do without my boys?"

"You'll never have to find out," John replied, "We're neither of us going anywhere, right Sherlock?"

"Right," Sherlock breathed, the last little barrier he held between his heart and John breaking away beneath the warmth of those words and John's arm.

**%&%&%**

**Calves**

_AN – in which Sherlock discovers a slight kink – nothing graphic._

Sherlock stared, captivated, as John came gracefully down the stairs. Beside him Lestrade choked, causing John to roll his eyes.

"Shut up Greg," John muttered good-naturedly.

Sherlock hadn't realised how… _attractive_… John's calves could be. The low heels, not even an inch high, gave his partners calves a subtle graceful curve that actually made his legs look longer.

'_You want me to do WHAT?'_

'_It's for a case, John; the killer is targeting men who cross dress.'_

'_But I don't even LOOK like a girl!'_

'_Exactly!'_

Lestrade got his chuckles under control and cleared his throat.

"You look the part, John," the DI complimented the former army surgeon, "Very tastefully done."

"Of course it is, Lestrade," Sherlock sniffed, "I wouldn't let him go out looking like a fright."

In Sherlock's opinion, the world of cross-dressers was split into three groups – those that retained their masculinity but wore the clothes of a woman, those that transformed themselves entirely into women and those that were outrageously dressed and part of a very vibrant culture. The killer they were after was specifically targeting the men that remained masculine but wore women's clothes and so John had been dressed very carefully.

Sherlock just hadn't been expecting his physical reaction to the sight of John's calves in three quarter inch heels. It was decidedly difficult to concentrate. The fact that the legs he was staring at were unexpectedly smooth didn't help.

'_What do you mean, shave my legs?'_

'_You can't wear a short skirt with hairy legs, John, it's just not done! If you don't wish to shave we could employ a waxing system…'_

'_Give me the razor.'_

John smoothed his hands over his hips, fussing at the short pleather skirt that came to just above his knees. Sherlock resisted the urge to smack those hands away and do it himself. If he started touching it wouldn't stop at the skirt, he'd be on his knees fondling those suddenly shapely calves and John had a thing about sex in public – it was classed as Not Good.

"What time are we supposed to be going?" John asked, finished with the skirt and crossing his arms over his chest. At Sherlock's direction he was wearing a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly on his forearms and the top three buttons undone. It was tucked into the waistband of his skirt and just the right shade of red to set off the strawberry blonde in his hair. Sherlock had excellent taste when it came to dressing his partner, if he said so himself.

"We've got an hour yet," Lestrade replied when it became apparent that Sherlock would not, "Did Sherlock do your make up then?"

"No, that was Mrs Hudson," John sounded resigned, "I feel like a cup of tea. Anyone else?"

Sherlock stood aside and watched in admiration as John's calves flexed and his ankles compensated for the extra slope he was standing on. Lestrade poked him in the ribs and muttered 'stop staring' before following John into the kitchen, agreeing a cup of tea would be appreciated if it wasn't too much trouble.

"I've got those biscuits, Sherlock!" John called and Sherlock followed along in a daze, listening to the unusual sound of nylon brushing with each step John took.

'_Those had better not be fishnet tights, Sherlock.'_

'_Now, John…'_

'_No. Trust me – you do not want to force me into a pair of tights, I'll be unable to perform for a week.'_

'_You can't wear socks with those shoes and if you go barefoot in them you'll end up with blisters. You need at least a slight layer between you and the shoes!'_

'_Tights, then. I saw a garter belt in that box earlier. And before you ask, no. You cannot watch me get dressed.'_

John shoved a tea in his hand and held out the biscuits – those ones Sherlock liked so much – out to Lestrade first. Sherlock sipped his tea, made to perfection as always, making an effort to get himself under some sort of control. When he'd hatched this plan he hadn't realised how very distracting John would be in those shoes.

"You'd have made a perfect gentleman in breeches and hose a couple of hundred years ago," Sherlock told John, "You have perfect calves."

"It's all the running I do, keeping up with you," John rolled his eyes. Lestrade almost choked on his tea and Sherlock grinned, munching quickly through a biscuit.

Once they got home, there would have to be some exploration of the possibilities of John in high heels. Sherlock wanted to spend some quality time with those calves.

**End**

AN – A good place to stop for now.


End file.
